Page 93 of Shattered Chords

To this event that’s celebrating love and family?

Something neither you nor I will have in our near future.

But what if?

The thought stirred through me, abrupt and subconsciously, an idea of its own.

I blinked, dark panic gathering under my ribs, pushing and shoving at my lungs.

“Dante?” My name was called and I righted myself, turning to look at the person who wanted to speak to me.

It was Billy, Frank’s father. A frown creased his wilted forehead. The years hadn’t been very kind to him and he’d shrunk even more, but there was still fire in his eyes. Happiness.

“It’s good to see you well, son.” He clapped my shoulder, his hand wrinkled and crooked but strong.

“Thanks, Billy. You’re looking good too.” It wasn’t a lie. Papa Wallace was ancient and had diabetes, but gray hair and leathery skin weren’t a big deal for him, because he still knew how to rock them.

“Hello.” He bowed his head and shifted his attention to Camille. “I’m Billy, father to that boy right over there.” He smiled and jutted his chin toward the general direction of the stage, where Johnny, Carter, and Story were whispering in a small circle.

The man who’d just bound himself to spitfire Cassy Evans was accepting congratulations from Maria, Izzy’s mother, and Cassy’s family. He had his arm around her shoulder and she was pressed to him with her whole body, the red and black of their clothes crashing together in a shimmering mess beneath the abundance of muted lights.

A rebellious feeling rose within me.

Jealousy.

“Hi. I’m Camille.” She offered Billy a smile. “It’s a great party.”

“Oh, yes. It is.” Papa Wallace locked both hands behind his back, his cunning gaze sliding from her to me and back. “So what do you do, young lady?”

“I manage a bridal boutique.”

“Is that right? How convenient.” He smirked at me. Old man fucking smirked at me.

When Frank finally extracted himself from the clutches of all the well-wishers and returned to the stage, Billy moved on to the next cluster of guests.

“They look nothing alike,” Camille whispered at me as the first notes of a song I’d never heard before poured from the speakers and filled the cool space.

“He’s adopted.”

“Right, I totally forgot. I think I read about that somewhere...or Ally told me.”

“You don’t know a single thing about the people gathered here tonight, do you?” I asked softly and slipped my hand around her elbow.

She shook her head. “Not really.”

“I like that.”

“You do?”

“To you, they’re just people.” My voice strained over the melody, growing louder with each passing second. “Not wallets, not statuses, not a means to an end.”

I wasn’t sure if my words impressed her or if it was the whole theme of the evening, but she took a step toward me and rested her cheek in the crook of my neck. I didn’t pursue more contact. Strangely, this was enough, all her soft curves pressed against my constantly sore muscles.

We listened to the rest of the composition in silence.

Frank was great. He fucked up here and there, but I figured he was emotional, and no one actually cared if he could drag a note out long enough.

When the music stopped, everyone clapped excitedly. I did too.

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